


if it's a miracle (to be alive and well)

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, and miller just can't catch a break either way, bellamy is an overprotective worrywart, clarke is having none of his bullshit, cop!bellamy, doctor!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 13:11:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4061266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy’s partner and best friend Miller gets injured while they’re chasing down a suspect. Bellamy rushes him to the ER, and of course manages to butt heads with a certain blonde in scrubs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if it's a miracle (to be alive and well)

 

The spitfire doctor finally emerges from the double doors, pulling off her surgical gloves and mask as she strides over to him. He springs to his feet, anxiously awaiting the answer to his unspoken question.

 

“He’s stable.”

 

Bellamy lets out a breath he’s pretty sure he’s been holding the entire time Miller’s been behind those doors. He takes a second to thank whatever God had been listening to his frantic, desperate prayers. Midway through his silent declarations of eternal gratitude, he realises the doctor has pulled off her operating cap, a single messy, blond braid tumbling down to rest over one shoulder. Also, she’s still talking. Right.

 

“… no major damage, at least none that couldn’t be seen to immediately. We’ll want to keep an eye on him the next twenty-four hours, but all in all… your partner was very lucky.”

 

“That’s good. That’s great. Oh, thank God.” Bellamy closes his eyes, hands moving to rest on his hips as his head dips down to let out another long sigh, savouring the relief that had overtaken the anxiety. At the distinct sound of a very, _very_ deliberate throat-clearing, his head snaps up to meet the narrowed glare of an unmistakably pissed-off blonde doctor.

 

“Mr. Blake, what you did earlier was absolutely inexcusable.”

 

Bellamy freezes. _Is she for real?_

 

Her low voice is sharp; cutting straight through the polite, comforting bullshit he thought doctors were supposed to spout to someone whose colleague had just undergone hours of life-or-death surgery. “Your partner was in dire need of urgent medical attention, and your lack of regard for hospital rules nearly cost him his life.”

 

Bellamy blinks incredulously at her, before his voice finally finds its way back into his throat. “ _Rules_? Excuse me, princess, I _saved_ his life!”

 

She plants her hands on her hips, her blue scrubs shifting along with the movement. It vaguely registers in the back of his mind that they’re now mirroring each other. He also definitely _doesn’t_ feel chagrined at having noticed the way rogue strands of yellow have escaped her braid, moving gently against her face. “You saved his life when a knife was forcibly embedded in his sternum, and you endangered it by forcing your way into an operating room _while_ —”

 

“I know. I’m sorry.” A silence. She’s evidently caught off-guard by his abrupt concession, eyes raking over him somewhat distrustfully as her arms move to fold themselves across her chest. Bellamy rubs at his face wearily, pushing away the urge to heave another therapeutic sigh. “I really am. I was just—“

 

“Worried about him.”

 

He glances up at her quickly. Her features soften into an expression that was almost kind.

 

“You were worried. About your friend. I get it.”

 

He nearly gapes at her, but catches himself just in time. “Uh… yeah.” He considers explaining himself, telling her _no you don’t, Miller is my best friend in the world and you don’t get that_ but decides that he would much rather preserve this tentative peace between them.

 

She huffs, and it sounds both impatient and sympathetic all at once. “Look, you’re not the first pair of cops to come rushing into the ER. After more than a few run-ins with you police folk, it gets pretty easy figuring partners out.”

 

At his uncomprehending raised brow, she takes another breath, more contemplative than anything. “It gets easier, figuring out if someone’s freaking out because they actually, genuinely care about their partner or if they’re just—“ her eyes flicker to the side as she searches for right word “—scared.”

 

He wants to say something, to argue with her – _everyone cares about their partners_ – but he thinks of Atom and Murphy, Jaha and Kane, and he realises she’s right. The silence between them stretches a little too long.

 

“Though that still doesn’t give you the right to barge into an OR.”

 

His eyes meet hers again, and this time he thinks he sees a flash of warmth in the icy blues of her irises.

 

“I just had to know he was gonna be okay. Seeing him get—” Bellamy sucks in a breath, and barrels on, “I was _there_ , I was the one holding him together while he was—“

 

“—Bleeding.”

 

“Yes, exactly, bleeding out all over the damn car—“

 

“No, you’re _bleeding_.” She grabs his wrist and pulls his arm up to the light. There’s a gash about six inches long across his forearm, soaking his sleeve to a dark rust and caking up the material so it feels almost like papier-mâchéunder the gentle pressure of her hand.

 

“Oh.” Bellamy shakes his head, his free hand running carelessly through his now beyond messy mop of curls. “Yeah, perp must’ve got me when I tackled him. Didn’t feel much of—“ Any further exposition is forced to give way to a loud hiss when her fingers carefully peel back the torn fabric of his uniform sleeve from the cut. He's momentarily distracted from the searing pain running up the entire length of his arm when he hears her curse under her breath – were doctors allowed to swear in front of hospital visitors?

 

“Right, that’s going to have to be cleaned and wrapped up. Now.” She starts to tug on his wrist, a clear signal to follow her.

 

“It’s fine, I should be getting back to the station now I know Miller’s gonna be alright.” For some reason, he feels like if he doesn’t leave right at this instant, he’ll have taken a turn at a fork he hadn’t even realised he had arrived at. In all honesty, it’s not that he wants the conversation with her to end that’s driving him to take his leave. In fact, it’s exactly the opposite.

 

She turns back, levelling him with a none-too-polite glare. “Oh, yeah, of course. You should go. And let that arm get infected. Which will probably lead to a crippling fever, and most _definitely_ earn you a bed next to Mr. Miller—“

 

“Hey, it’s not _that_ bad!”

 

She huffs out a breath that clearly conveys how she’s feeling, which could probably be summed up as follows: _OhmyGodyoudumbfuck_. “Well you’ve got two options – either sit down and be still for five minutes, _right now_ , or I’ll just see you again in three to four days when infection’s set in properly. I should probably add that the second option also includes lying down for at least another three days in a hospital bed, massive doses of painkillers, not to mention—“

 

“Alright, Jesus. Point made.” He inhales – to steady himself, more than anything – and runs a hand through his hair again. He’s being stupid. It’s a stupid cut. _She’s a **doctor** , for crying out loud. She’s doing her **job**._  He's very aware of her sky blue irises trained expectantly on him. Ignoring the feeling budding in his chest that somehow makes him feel like he’s sinking and floating up into the air at the same time, he meets her piercing gaze. “Lead the way, princess.”

 

He detects the hint of a triumphant smirk before she spins on her heel and leads him down the corridor into an empty examination room. As she pushes the door open, he suddenly realises how much shorter than him she really was. Nothing about her had seemed small when she’d been ordering him out of the OR, the commanding timbre of her voice rising above the machines and nurses – certainly and _especially_ not when she’d taken it upon herself to shove him through the doors with unexpected fortitude.

 

He pushes himself up on the examination table, and he’s momentarily surprised at how much effort the simple move requires of him. _Shit._ Evidently, he’s lost a bit more blood than he thought. He shakes the thought off, turning his focus to watching Clarke – _Dr. Griffin_ , he corrects himself – instead, finding himself somewhat fascinated by the efficient, confident way she moves around the room, clanging various supplies and tools into metal trays.

 

“Alright,” she announces, dragging a tall stool over to him from a corner of the room and brandishing a pair of very sharp-looking scissors, “let’s get you all patched up.”

 

He lets out a quick laugh, and rests his bloodied arm in front of her. “Looking to you, princess.” He enjoys the exasperated roll of her eyes at his persistence with the nickname as she shifts the scissors in her grip, the metal glinting under the lamp she’s pulled into position over his arm.

 

He falls silent for a bit, deciding to just watch her work rather than attempt to make what he’s sure is going to be awkward conversation, now that the adrenaline of the past few hours has worn off. She makes quick work of his uniform sleeve – fuck, he’s going to have to answer to Monroe for that – and sets to cleaning out the dried blood and stray bits of fabric and dirt from his wound. He lets his head drop as the flashes of pain start up again, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s not about to _cry_ or anything, but it still _hurts_.

 

“So what’d this guy do, anyway?” His eyes open immediately, a little taken aback at the light, almost friendly tone of her husky voice. “I mean, why were you and Mr. Miller getting all _Ninja Assassin_ with him?” Her head’s still bent over his arm, so she doesn’t see his mouth hanging open slightly at the realisation of how much he likes hearing her voice when it’s like _this_ , all warm and indulgent and—fuck. _No, Bellamy._

 

“Er—“ he stops and clears his throat, _oh God of all times to have a fucking crack in your fucking voice_ , “—well he’s no Tony Soprano, if that’s what you’re asking. Just your regular, run-of-the-mill street mugger.” He pauses when he sees her raise a hypodermic needle. “Oh, no, I don’t—“

 

She glances at him, brow furrowing. “No to anaesthetic?”

 

“No, I don’t—“ _I don’t want to be reliant on anything my mother would have been._ “—do that.”

 

She just looks at him, expression unreadable. He meets her gaze calmly, hoping she doesn’t notice the way his fingers clench tensely.

 

“Okay.” She sets it aside, reaching for a silver needle and thread instead. “So was he a halfway infamous criminal at least?”

 

Bellamy swallows in an attempt to physically shove down the urge to have a word vomit breakdown after that too-long look they shared. _Or something else. Involving a lot less words—Jesus. Focus, Blake._ “Hardly,” he scoffs. “Well, he’d gotten a bit bolder this time round. Tried to rob a place ’stead of a person. But he—“ he breaks off, wincing a bit as the needle pierces his skin and forcing himself to continue, “he’d chosen the wrong damn café to hit up. For me and Miller, anyway. It’s kind of our favourite place ever.”

 

She snorts a little, hands never wavering as they continued to make neat stitches up his arm. “'Ever'? That’s not an understatement at all.”

 

“You only say that because you’ve never had brownies like these in your _life_ , princess.” He holds her gaze as she lifts her eyes to presumably argue with him, forgetting to be bothered by the fact that ten minutes with her really shouldn’t make him comfortable enough to presume anything about her. He leans forward slightly from his seat on the table, and he is far too pleased to catch her fleeting glance – down to his lips and back up to his eyes, two milliseconds at most. His voice drops several pitches lower. “Blow. Your fucking. _Mind._ ”

 

Silence. Her hand hovers over the half-sewn gash in his arm.

 

She blinks, face still upturned to his. Then— _oh God_ —a smile breaks out, lighting up all her features.

 

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to show me then.”

 

Oh, he _cannot_ wait.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i mean who doesn't love overprotective bellamy + sensible-but-understanding clarke because I DO
> 
>  
> 
> (title from 'Miracle' by Donnie Trumpet & the Social Experiment)


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